That suggestion gave her something more definite to rest on than she had found in her own thoughts, and the fact of this association of her uncle's mild acuteness with her dilemma seemed to prove that she was concerned with the natural and reasonable emotions of life and not altogether a victim to intellectual eagerness and vague ambitions-ambitions reaching beyond Lord Warburton's beautiful appeal, reaching to something indefinable and possibly not commendable.In so far as the indefinable had an influence upon Isabel's behaviour at this juncture, it was not the conception, even unformulated, of a union with Caspar Goodwood; for however she might have resisted conquest at her English suitor's large quiet hands she was at least as far removed from the disposition to let the young man from Boston take positive possession of her.The sentiment in which she sought refuge after reading his letter was a critical view of his having come abroad; for it was part of the influence he had upon her that he seemed to deprive her of the sense of freedom.There was a disagreeably strong push, a kind of hardness of presence, in his way of rising before her.She had been haunted at moments by the image, by the danger, of his disapproval and had wondered- a consideration she had never paid in equal degree to any one else- whether he would like what she did.The difficulty was that more than any man she had ever known, more than poor Lord Warburton (she had begun now to give his lordship the benefit of this epithet), Caspar Goodwood expressed for her an energy- and she had already felt it as a power- that was of his very nature.It was in no degree a matter of his "advantages"-it was a matter of the spirit that sat in his clear-burning eyes like some tireless watcher at a window.She might like it or not, but he insisted, ever, with his whole weight and force: even in one's usual contact with him one had to reckon with that.The idea of a diminished liberty was particularly disagreeable to her at present, since she had just given a sort of personal accent to her independence by looking so straight at Lord Warburton's big bribe and yet turning away from it.Sometimes Caspar Goodwood had seemed to range himself on the side of her destiny, to be the stubbornest fact she knew; she said to herself at such moments that she might evade him for a time, but that she must make terms with him at last-terms which would be certain to be favourable to himself.Her impulse had been to avail herself of the things that helped her to resist such an obligation; and this impulse had been much concerned in her eager acceptance of her aunt's invitation, which had come to her at an hour when she expected from day to day to see Mr.Goodwood and when she was glad to have an answer ready for something she was sure he would say to her.When she had told him at Albany, on the evening of Mrs.Touchett's visit, that she couldn't then discuss difficult questions, dazzled as she was by the great immediate opening of her aunt's offer of "Europe," he declared that this was no answer at all; and it was now to obtain a better one that he was following her across the sea.To say to herself that he was a kind of grim fate was well enough for a fanciful young woman who was able to take much for granted in him; but the reader has a right to a nearer and a clearer view.
He was the son of a proprietor of well-known cotton-mills in Massachusetts- a gentleman who had accumulated a considerable fortune in the exercise of this industry.Caspar at present managed the works, and with a judgement and a temper which, in spite of keen competition and languid years, had kept their prosperity from dwindling.He had received the better part of his education at Harvard College, where, however, he had gained renown rather as a gymnast and an oarsman than as a gleaner of more dispersed knowledge.Later on he had learned that the finer intelligence too could vault and pull and strain- might even, breaking the record, treat itself to rare exploits.He had thus discovered in himself a sharp eye for the mystery of mechanics, and had invented an improvement in the cotton-spinning process which was now largely used and was known by his name.You might have seen it in the newspapers in connection with this fruitful contrivance; assurance of which he had given to Isabel by showing her in the columns of the New York Interviewer an exhaustive article on the Goodwood patent- an article not prepared by Miss Stackpole, friendly as she had proved herself to his more sentimental interests.There were intricate, bristling things he rejoiced in; he liked to organize, to contend, to administer; he could make people work his will, believe in him, march before him and justify him.This was the art, as they said, of managing men- which rested, in him, further, on a bold though brooding ambition.It struck those who knew him well that he might do greater things than carry on a cotton-factory; there was nothing cottony about Caspar Goodwood, and his friends took for granted that he would somehow and somewhere write himself in bigger letters.But it was as if something large and confused, something dark and ugly, would have to call upon him: he was not after all in harmony with mere smug peace and greed and gain, an order of things of which the vital breath was ubiquitous advertisement.It pleased Isabel to believe that he might have ridden, on a plunging steed, the whirlwind of a great war- a war like the Civil strife that had overdarkened her conscious childhood and his ripening youth.
